Thirty Days
by alexysmichele
Summary: Snippets of time in the lives of John and Sherlock. Thirty day challenge. Each day is a one word prompt. Each chapter is unrelated unless I mention otherwise.
1. Beginning

**Day One: The word is 'beginning.'**

John blinked at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, living and breathing, in the eerie, tomb-like silence of 221B Baker Street. Surely he was imagining it. Sherlock was _dead_. _Gone_. _Never coming back_. He blinked again, expecting the vision to disappear. It didn't. John focused on the unkempt, gaunt man standing in front of him.

"Sherlock," the name fell from John's lips on a breath. The aching grip that had constricted his heart since the day Sherlock jumped loosened, allowing John to _feel_ for the first time in months.

Disbelief, confusion, joy, betrayal, _fury_; waves of emotion pummeled him overwhelmingly.

"You _bastard!_" There was the distinct sound of knuckles to flesh and bone as John, compelled by the surge of anger, slammed his fist into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock staggered back and cupped his bleeding cheek. He watched John warily.

John clenched and unclenched his hand and cursed at the sting of his scraped knuckles. His breathing was labored and his faced was turning a rather alarming shade of red.

"I suppose I deserved that," Sherlock tried for a wry smile and winced at the twinge of pain. He stepped forward. "John, I—"

John held up a hand. "You were _dead._ I saw it, Sherlock! You jumped off a building, dammit! You had no pulse and Jesus, the blood. Don't make light of this! God," he pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Released it. He leveled a look at Sherlock and studied him. Little had changed about Sherlock in the months since the Fall. Tired shadows ringed his eyes and stubble darkened his jaw. His razor-sharp cheekbones were startlingly prominent, evidence of weight loss. There was a newfound weariness in Sherlock's face and, if possible, his eyes were harder, icier. But he still wore his dramatic black coat with an air of aloof arrogance and he still seemed to take in every detail around him. Some things never changed.

Sherlock gazed back at John with a look of—was that trepidation?—masked by cool indifference. _He's anxious_, John realized. _He doesn't know how to handle this any better than I do._

A weary sigh escaped John's lips. He scrubbed his hands over his face as if to remove evidence of his feelings.

"You're angry," Sherlock observed quietly.

"Excellent deduction," the corner of John's mouth quirked. The chuckle that escaped sounded foreign to him. He shook his head and turned away. "Come on, then." John gestured for Sherlock to follow him.

In doctor mode, John dug up his first aid kit—never moved from its place in the bathroom cabinet—and gathered the necessary items. Sherlock slipped through the door behind him with a quiet, cat-like grace that never failed to impress John.

John almost smiled when he saw that Sherlock hadn't yet removed his coat. "Take that off," he nodded to the jacket.

He sucked in a breath when Sherlock obliged, taking in the prominent clavicle and rail-like frame. Sherlock had always been thin but this bordered on emaciated. The once fitted shirt no longer strained at the buttons but instead hung loosely around Sherlock's chest.

"Jesus, did you eat at all while you were—" John paused. _Dead? Gone?_ "—away?" he settled on as he quickly but thoroughly washed his hands.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I didn't have my blogger there to take care of me," a tiny smirk pulled at his lips.

John swallowed thickly over the swell of emotion threatening to choke him. He _hated_ that he wasn't there. "That didn't answer my question," he muttered hoarsely, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. He focused on preparing the antiseptic and bandage for Sherlock's face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course I ate. But you know eating slows me down on a case." He winced when John probed lightly at the cut high on his bruised cheekbone. Sherlock closed his eyes and lost himself in the feel of John's gentle touch and his nearness. He'd _missed_ this. London. Home. _John._

If Sherlock didn't look too closely at the situation, it wasn't different than all the times they'd come back to the flat, giddy from adrenaline and the thrill of the chase. John would patch Sherlock up from whatever injury he had surely obtained and they would settle down in the sitting room with tea, still too wired to consider sleep.

Of course, this wasn't like that at all, was it? Sherlock resented his uncertainty. Was John happy to see him? Would he bandage Sherlock up and demand he leave? _This was maddening._

The sting of antiseptic jolted Sherlock from his thoughts.

"Sorry," John mumbled when Sherlock flinched slightly.

"No you aren't," he was matter-of-fact. "You acted in anger and you didn't _intend_ to hit me. But you don't regret it. You _wanted_ to hurt me," Sherlock realized. "Maybe inflict a fraction of the pain I've caused you."

John's eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's unearthly blue stare. "Fair enough," he stuck a bandage over Sherlock's cut and let his hand rest there, thumb lightly stroking over the bruised skin. "How am I supposed to react? I'm angry, Sherlock. I don't know how to handle my best friend coming back from the dead." He continued before Sherlock could inform him that he had not, in fact, actually died. "But I _am_ happy. Confused, pissed, shocked but…happy." John dropped his hand and grasped Sherlock by the shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.

John felt Sherlock tense before relaxing and wrapping his arms around John. Heat radiated between them and John took a moment to revel in the feeling of Sherlock, warm and breathing, close to him. Safe. _Alive_.

"I'm still furious, you know," John murmured into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock hummed, "If you'd give me the opportunity to explain…" his breath rustled John's hair.

John sighed and pulled away. He nudged Sherlock to the sitting room.

"Maybe you should start at the beginning…"


	2. Accusation

**Day Two: The word is 'accusation.'**

"This is your fault, you know," Sherlock's imperious tone resonated through their flat. The flat that was currently strewn with the soggy tattered remains of a blue silk dressing gown.

"_My_ fault?" John used two fingers to pick up a particularly tattered bit of robe riddled with bite marks. "Please, do explain your reasoning." He tossed the fabric on the sofa and turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled. "Obvious. That infernal mutt is yours. _You_ brought him here," he gestured to the small bulldog puppy cowering in the corner, a piece of navy silk still clenched between his teeth.

John snorted and gently pried the sash of Sherlock's robe from the pup and gave him a light flick on the nose. "Gladstone's just a baby, Sherlock. And if I recall correctly, you didn't protest when I brought him home," John picked up Gladstone up and approached Sherlock. "In fact, you seemed to indicate that you even _liked_ this little guy." He nudged Sherlock, encouraging him to take Gladstone.

Sherlock cradled the puppy in his arms and grumbled, "Piss off."

John grinned.

Sherlock huffed and strode away, mindlessly stroking Gladstone's ears, "You owe me a dressing gown."


	3. Restless

**Day Three: The word is 'restless.'**_  
_

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Rainwater trickled persistently from the ceiling of a tiny, dreary room in one of the city's more decrepit buildings. A narrow bed sat in one corner, fitted with threadbare sheets and a tattered blanket. The smell of mothballs and mildew mingled with the rain, contributing to the stuffy, damp atmosphere of the room.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Sherlock scowled at the offending noise and took a drag of his cigarette. He relished the slight burn of the smoke in his lungs for a moment before slowly exhaling. The smoke trailed lazily above Sherlock's head as he gazed from the small, grimy window of his bedsit. London sprawled beneath him, gray and bleak. The drone of traffic and midday crowds navigating the rain washed streets invaded his senses.

Sherlock turned from the window and paced the creaking floorboards. _What was taking so long?_ He glared moodily at the mobile phone tossed thoughtlessly on the bed, as if _it_ was the one causing Sherlock's restlessness.

Waiting was not his strength in the most typical circumstances. Waiting _now_ was nearly unbearable.

It had been ten months since the fall. Ten months in hiding, ten of months of tracking down Moriarty's extensive web of minions. That web was now destroyed, meticulously disassembled one strand at a time, and that fact left Sherlock in his current state.

Edgy. Restless. _Bored._

Sherlock cursed his brother. Mycroft insisted Sherlock remain hidden while he 'tied up a few loose ends.' Sherlock suspected Mycroft took pleasure in forcing him to delay his return. A few blocks from 221B, a few blocks from _John_, and he was trapped _here_. It was infuriating.

_How long did it take to clear up a few details?_ Sherlock growled in frustration and lit another cigarette, the glowing red tip bright in the gloom.

Nervous energy vibrated through him. He was manic in his pacing now, fingers tugging at already rumpled curls. _This was ridiculous_.

Sherlock froze when his mobile emitted a quiet chime and lit the room with a dull glow. He pounced on it, frantically bringing up the message.

A tiny smile crossed his features as he read the text.

_Finally_. He was through waiting.


	4. Snowflake

**Day Four: The word is 'snowflake.'**

John shivered violently against the bitter cold wind threatening to rip away the scarf—Sherlock's scarf—wound tightly around his neck.

He cursed his decision to walk home from the grocery but in this weather, flagging down a cab was next to impossible and not worth the time it would waste.

All of London was shrouded with thick, grey clouds heavy with the promise of snow. It was colder than usual, the frigid air worming its way into every nook and cranny. It left a bone-deep chill in its wake long after respite had been found indoors.

John wanted nothing more than a steaming cup of tea and his warmest jumper and that thought encouraged him to hurry down the last few streets home. He reached 221B and closed the door tightly against the wind before he trudged up the steps to the flat he and Sherlock shared.

Walking straight through to the kitchen, John shucked his jacket as he unpacked the shopping. He'd already begun brewing tea when it struck him that his breath was still visible, appearing in small puffs as he exhaled.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. He strode in the sitting room with a scowl. "What in the bloody hell did you—" He broke off.

Sherlock was curled on the sofa with his—John's—laptop and a blue quilt, wearing his—John's—favourite oatmeal jumper. John stifled a grin, his anger momentarily forgotten.

The jumper hung loosely around Sherlock's shoulders and chest and the sleeves were several inches too short. John suspected a good amount of pale abdomen would be revealed if Sherlock stood.

John cleared his throat. "Ahh…Sherlock. You're wearing my jumper."

Sherlock didn't glance up. "As always, I'm astounded by your ability to state the obvious," he shifted on the sofa and freed his legs from the quilt.

"I mean, why are you wearing my jumper?" John peeked over Sherlock's shoulder; he was researching flesh decomposition speeds. John wisely chose not to question it.

Sherlock tuned his head and gazed owlishly at John. "It's cold," he said simply. "And you took my scarf." Sherlock resumed his computer research.

"Right…care to explain why it's freezing in our flat?" John shuffled around piles of medical texts and various forensics books to the fireplace to poke at the smoldering coals and build up a proper fire.

Sherlock waved a hand carelessly. "Just a minor issue. It's nothing."

Fire crackling, John stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Maybe you don't mind it but I don't fancy becoming an ice block."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be absurd. We've plenty of blankets."

Resigned, John glanced around. The fire cast flickering shadows through the dimly lit room and books and stacks of paper covered nearly every surface.

"Budge up," John nudged Sherlock over. "You nicked my jumper, the least you can do is share the quilt."

Sherlock looked momentarily disgruntled but obliged and set aside the laptop. He curled tightly under the blanket again and spread it over John. Pressed together hip to hip, heat quickly radiated between them. Sherlock shifted closer to John and leaned into the warmth.

John sighed contentedly and inhaled deeply. The rich, woodsy smell of smoke from the fire permeated the air and combined with the scent of tea and Sherlock, it gave the flat a decidedly homey feel. Despite the chill still present, the bitter cold from earlier was the last thing on John's mind.

Warm and comfortable, John burrowed deeper into the sofa and further under the quilt. He let his eyes drift closed and briefly wondered how long it would be before Sherlock proclaimed boredom.

"John," Sherlock bumped his knee against John's.

John groaned. "Ten minutes. Just ten minutes of peace."

"I was simply going to request that you share the blanket," Sherlock tugged on it. "I'm quite comfortable but you've taken far more than half."

John opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock. "You're actually content to sit still for the moment?"

"Quite," Sherlock tugged on the quilt again. "No need to look suspicious, John. It's cold and we've just finished a case, so I'm tired. Nothing extraordinary."

John relaxed. "Well, then," his eyes closed again. Sherlock tucked his feet up under the blanket and pressed more fully against John.

John ignored the voice that told him flat mates did _not_ cuddle and nestled comfortably into the warmth of Sherlock's body.

Mrs. Hudson found them like that an hour later, wrapped up in the quilt and each other, sound asleep, and as the first snowflakes fell, she couldn't help but smile. She knew it was only a matter of time before her boys came to their senses.


	5. Haze

**Day Five: The word is 'haze.'**

Sherlock's mind was blank. The oppressive summer heat left his brain feeling dull and fuzzy and there was little else to do but sprawl limply across the sofa. Thinking was clearly out of the question.

A stale breeze trailed lazily through the open windows, circulating more hot air throughout the room rather than bringing in cool relief from the scorching weather.

Sherlock stretched more fully on the sofa and inhaled. _Hell, it even __**smelled**__ hot._ The air was thick with humidity and no amount of wind or fanning could prevent the rivulets of sweat from dripping off his forehead. His skin stuck uncomfortably to the leather cushions beneath him.

The floorboards creaked and Sherlock opened his eyes to find John walking by, dressed only in pants, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. Sherlock snaked out a hand and grabbed him by the wrist. He pulled John down so he lay stretched out on top of Sherlock.

"Bit hot for this, isn't it?" John commented but made no move to shift away.

Sherlock ignored him and nuzzled his neck and breathed in the fresh, minty scent of _his_ John. He trailed his hands up and down John's shower-cooled skin and idly traced the contours of his back.

John relaxed further and slid bonelessly down Sherlock's body. They fit comfortably, pressed chest to chest, hips to hips, legs entwined together. John felt Sherlock's lips rest softly against his hair and sighed contentedly. Moments like these were rare; Sherlock lacked his usual sharp edges and harsh coldness. He was warm and pliant and still. John feathered small kisses across Sherlock's neck and chest and lightly nipped at his jaw. He tilted his head further and brought their mouths together in a chaste, sweet kiss. Sherlock deepened it and teased John's lips with his tongue. John hummed and languidly kissed back, heat slowly building between them as Sherlock grasped John's arse and moved against him.

John groaned at the contact and slowly rotated his hips. A gasp escaped Sherlock's lips as their erections brushed through their pants and he hurriedly pushed their clothes, thankfully minimal, down and away. The blissful press of skin to skin quickened their pace and Sherlock felt the euphoric fog of passion take over. They moved together frantically, sweat-slicked skin sliding, soft moans and sighs the only sound as the pressure built. As the tight heat coiled low in his belly, Sherlock dragged John closer and buried his face in John's neck as he fell over the edge, John not far behind him.

The air shimmered with the heat radiating around them, collapsed against each other, limp and breathless. A small smile of satisfaction spread across Sherlock's face as he held John close to him and allowed the post-coital haze take over.


	6. Flame

**Day Six: The word is 'flame.'**

John knew better than to question it. Sherlock would have some ridiculously long-winded explanation that, against all reasoning, would somehow sound completely logical. _It's for a case,_ he said.

Of _course_ it was for a case. It always was.

But that didn't explain exactly _why_ they were in a heavily wooded stretch of the English countryside or why John was currently putting his survival skills to use by building a fire before darkness fell.

Nope, he didn't have a clue. Sherlock had requested that John gather the necessities for a short camping trip. Imagine, Sherlock _camping_. John, of course, obliged, despite his confusion. Sherlock was vague about the details of the case. Something about a ritualistic murderer hiding out. John just tagged along as usual.

So here they were. Dusk was rapidly approaching and the area where they'd set up camp was shrouded in shadows. Only the red-orange glow from the small campfire prevented John and Sherlock from stumbling around in the dark.

Sherlock was seated on a log, somehow managing to look as posh as ever in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans**. **John hadn't thought Sherlock _owned_ such casual clothing and half-expected him to wear his usual tailored suit and too-tight button down. _That_ would have been a sight to see.

Grinning over that image, John poked at the fire one more time and turned for a bag of marshmallows. Case or not, he intended to enjoy this trip.

Sherlock was quietly observing their surroundings and they sat in companionable silence while John roasted a marshmallow. When the sugary confection was toasted to a light brown, John waved the stick to get Sherlock's attention and offered it to him.

Sherlock looked at it blankly.

"What, seriously?" John was incredulous. "You've never roasted a marshmallow?"

"I must have deleted it," Sherlock smirked. "And I'm sure Mummy never allowed it when I was a child."

"Right then," John put a marshmallow on the stick and handed it to Sherlock. "Hold it over the fire and roast it until it's brown and gooey."

"That's revolting."

John popped his own marshmallow into his mouth and grinned. "Yeah, it is. But you have to try it." He took a seat next to Sherlock on the log and leaned back, watching the flames dance under Sherlock's roasting marshmallow.

"I don't see the purpose in this," Sherlock muttered.

"You wouldn't," John said agreeably. "But it's a camping necessity, I promise."

Sherlock huffed and quickly jumped up when the marshmallow caught fire. "John!"

John stifled a laugh and blew out the flame.

"This is entirely inedible," Sherlock poked at the charred blob—yes,_ blob_—and frowned. John plucked the stick from Sherlock's hand and removed the blackened skin from the marshmallow, revealing the gummy white center beneath.

"There," he handed the stick back to Sherlock.

"I don't eat during cases," Sherlock looked at the remains of the marshmallow with revulsion.

John rolled his eyes. "Just try it."

Sherlock sighed and took the sticky mass between his index finger and thumb. He looked at it suspiciously before eating it with a grimace.

"See, not so bad, right?" John teased. "You have a bit…" he leaned forward to wipe a spot of marshmallow from the corner of Sherlock's mouth. John flushed when he realized what he'd done and glanced up at Sherlock.

Sherlock gazed at him with curious intensity.

It should have been surprising. It should have been awkward and new and strange. But they had been dancing around this for weeks and when Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's, it was just _right._ They fit.

John nipped at Sherlock's lips and deepened the kiss. Sherlock pressed back, grasping John's waist, tongue tangling with John's. The flavor was intoxicating; sweet and warm and _Sherlock_.

John gradually pulled back from Sherlock and gave him several light kisses before retreating entirely. He still held Sherlock close and gave him a small, questioning smile.

Sherlock, looking lightly flushed and thoroughly snogged, smirked at him. "I'll concede that perhaps marshmallows aren't 'so bad,' as you put it," and pulled John back for another kiss.


	7. Formal

**Day Seven: The word is 'formal.**'

John stood in front of the mirror of his tiny bedsit, fiddling with his cuffs, uncomfortable in the black suit. He didn't need to examine his reflection to know that sorrow etched his features or that tired circles shadowed his eyes. It was inevitable. John had hardly slept in the days since Sherlock…fell.

John sighed shakily. It was still too fresh, too new. His gut wrenched at the thought of never seeing Sherlock again. Never solving cases, never quietly reminding him that he was being a bit not good, never arguing over experiments in the kitchen. Hell, he'd even miss _those._

John swallowed thickly and forced himself to put his focus elsewhere. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his tie, frowning. This felt _wrong._

Sherlock would scoff at the fuss being made over his funeral. _God, his funeral._ John's thoughts stuttered over that. Sherlock would mock the sentiment and declare the entire thing dull. But Mycroft had insisted and John knew—hoped—that the closure would help.

John shook his head and tugged off his tie, quickly undressing. He didn't need another reminder that his best friend was dead. Little would come from sitting uncomfortably in a suit he'd never wear again, especially when Sherlock would laugh over the formality.

John changed into his usual attire and donned his every day black jacket over it. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him at Baker Street.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and as he left the room, John once again wished for one more miracle.


	8. Companion

**Wow! Thanks for the favorites and alerts everyone! I didn't expect a challenge I'm using as practice to get attention. Thanks and I hope you enjoy :)**

**Day Eight: The word is "companion."**

Sherlock glared at the wriggling puppy in John's arms.

Ever since John had brought home the tiny bulldog pup, Gladstone—and what kind of name was that?—had been John's sole focus.

Initially, Sherlock had been intrigued by the idea of having a prospective specimen to experiment on. He'd never tell John that of course. Now, Sherlock was certain the puppy would be of absolutely no use to him.

Sherlock knew it was childish to pout. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ to feel something as useless as jealousy. But he _needed_ John to bounce deductions off of and he required his full attention. And he couldn't very well do that when John's attention was elsewhere.

Sherlock sniffed. _Jealous._ Of a _dog._ Ridiculous. He curled further into the sofa and wrapped his dressing gown tightly around his body.

"What are you pouting about?" John peered down at him.

Sherlock ignored him.

"Seriously?" John snorted. "Well, budge up at least." He shoved Sherlock's feet aside. Sherlock plunked them in John's lap the moment he sat.

John released Gladstone, who happily scrambled up Sherlock's legs to settle comfortably on the flat planes of Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock sent the dozing animal a withering look, earning a laugh from John.

"Oh my god!" he tried to stifle his giggles. "You're jealous! You're jealous of a _puppy?"_ John was shaking with laughter.

Sherlock huffed. "I'm so pleased you find this amusing."

"I'm just trying to understand _why_."

"I don't _want_ to be jealous."

"No, of course not." By now, John had his chuckles under control.

"I really must insist you take _him_—" Sherlock gestured to Gladstone. "—back to wherever you got him."

John shook his head. "No."

"But how do you expect me to solve cases when you're off with _that_?"

"Sherlock, you're being absurd. You managed without me before. I just thought it might be nice for us to have a companion. Man's best friend and all that."

"_I'm_ your friend," Sherlock knew he sounded petulant.

"And you call me the idiot," John rolled his eyes and squeezed Sherlock's leg. "You're my best mate, you git. More than that, come to think of it. We've got the type of…relationship that very few people have or understand. Gladstone is not going to change that." John smiled fondly.

Sherlock stared for a moment and cleared his throat. "Good. Fine." He closed his eyes and took up his usual thinking position, hands lifted to his chin.

John smirked and wondered, not for the first time, when Sherlock would realize that he was far more human than he claimed to be.


	9. Move

**Day Nine: The word is 'move.'**

The crime scene was grim; a mutilated body, spattered blood, very little evidence, and no witnesses. In other words, it was Sherlock's favorite type of crime scene because, for once, there was a puzzle that promised intrigue and challenge.

So why, then, was Sherlock unable to concentrate?

_John_. He was inconveniently distracting.

Too often, Sherlock found his mind wandering to thoughts of John and his gaze tracking John's movements. Anytime John was near, Sherlock felt his body go on alert. He wanted to taste him and touch him and know every inch of him; every scar, every wrinkle, every curve and plane.

Sherlock _craved_ John.

And that wouldn't do.

Sherlock focused his attention enough to quickly rattle off his deductions, tell Lestrade to text him, and swoop dramatically from the crime scene, John not far behind.

The ride to Baker Street was silent. Sherlock watched the city slowly pass by through the cab window, though his mind was not on the gray, misty view.

He thought of the matter at hand. Emotions were admittedly not his strength and he'd bothered with them very little over the years. If anything, Sherlock prided himself on his ability to divorce himself from feelings and allow his work to command his full attention. This new…_affection_ for John was unusual. He was certain nothing good would come of it and equally sure it would pass.

By the time Sherlock and John reached 221B, Sherlock had come up with his solution.

"John, you need to leave," Sherlock flung himself gracefully onto the sofa.

John threw him a confused look. "What?"

"I said, 'You need to leave.' Move out. This isn't working."

"…Right. You're hilarious."

"No, I'm very serious. I'll need you out by the end of the week."

John spluttered. "But…why?"

Sherlock schooled his face into a mask of indifference and tried to ignore the churning in his gut. "I already told you, this isn't working. You are no longer any use to me. Terminating this partnership is the most logical solution."

A pang of hurt and betrayal flashed through John. "Partnership? That's all this is? Sherlock, we're _friends._"

Sherlock waved a hand as if to brush aside John's words.

A surge of anger took over. "No. You can't just decide, out of the blue, that you are _bored_ with me. I'm not a toy, Sherlock!" He shook his head and stomped to the sofa. "You don't just decide this is over. Not without a better reason." He crossed his arms and looked down at Sherlock.

"I gave you my reasons."

"I don't believe you. I know you're above all emotions and think sentiment is rubbish but I _know_ you, Sherlock. You're more human than you'll admit," John nudged Sherlock over and sat next to him. "We're going to discuss this."

Sherlock watched him coolly. "There's nothing to discuss. I don't wish to continue living with you."

"And _why_ exactly is that? And don't give me that 'You're no longer useful' bit again. We both know that's nonsense."

A few moments passed before Sherlock sighed heavily. "You are a distraction."

John blinked. "Come again?"

Sherlock gave him his patented 'don't be dull' look. "You distract me from my work. I can't concentrate with you around being…_you_. It isn't conducive to solving cases when all I think about is you and your mouth and being near you and—" Sherlock's words were cut off by John's very insistent lips against his own.

Sherlock's mind went blank for a moment—and wasn't that strange?—before he let his eyes drift closed and tentatively kissed John back.

Sensation flooded him; soft lips, warm breath, rapid pulse, the silky press of John's tongue tangled with his. Sherlock welcomed the rich flavor and delicate heat, cataloguing the information for later analyzing.

When John pulled back, Sherlock's half-lidded gaze was undiluted, raw lust. John didn't think he'd ever seen such open emotion on Sherlock's face before.

"You're an idiot," John said with affection. "I know this kind of thing isn't your area. That much is obvious. But I think we should try this. Whatever _this_ is." He smiled crookedly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to wrap his head around what was happening. "It is possible that I jumped to conclusions too quickly," Sherlock pondered the situation with renewed clarity. "In fact, I believe you are even _more_ useful than before. Perhaps this will be a welcome distraction." He shifted closer to John and lightly stroked his jaw, mapping John's face with his fingertips. And then decidedly: "I could never become bored of you." Sherlock gave John a fierce but chaste kiss.

John watched Sherlock intently. "I'm not leaving." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good."

**A/N: ****This is one of those drabbles that was very quickly inching into full fic territory. I had to control myself.  
It's also something I might consider toying with and turning it into said full fic. We shall see xD**


	10. Silver

**Sorry about the delay in uploading. I got a new computer and had to transfer and sort my docs :)**

**Day Ten: The word is 'silver.'**

Peace. Quiet. The blissful silence of a case-free afternoon. Sherlock was occupied and no experiments were at risk of exploding.

John sighed contentedly and sunk comfortably into his armchair with a newspaper. He was jolted from his seat moments later by a string of curses coming from the bathroom.

_Too good to be true, of course._

"Sherlock?" John imagined the worse. Cracked skull, gaping wounds, third-degree burns.

What he walked in on was Sherlock scowling into the mirror, pulling at his hair and muttering under his breath.

John leaned against the doorframe. "What are you on about?"

"Look!" Sherlock gestured to his hair and ducked his head to show John.

"I don't see anything. Just your hair," he carded his fingers through the dark locks.

Sherlock grabbed his hand. "Stop!" he pointed. "There!"

John threw him his 'I have no idea what you mean but I'll humor you' look.

Sherlock shuddered dramatically. "A gray hair! I found a gray hair!"

A snort escaped before John could control himself. "Seriously? _That's_ what you're in here making a fuss about?"

"I _can't_ have a gray hair," Sherlock was insistent.

"I didn't think you were so vain," John teased.

"This has nothing to do with vanity!"

John arched a brow. "What's it got to do with, then?"

Sherlock was silent.

John stepped forward and gave Sherlock's waist an affectionate squeeze. "You're an idiot. You've nothing to worry about, good-looking as you are," he cocked his head. "In fact, I think you'd look quite dashing with silver hair."

Sherlock recoiled with a look of horror.

"Relax," John gave him a peck on the lips. "One tiny gray hair doesn't mean a thing."

Sherlock frowned and turned back to the mirror, tweezers in hand. John watched as Sherlock meticulously plucked the offending strand and held it up triumphantly.

"Sherlock, you do know what they say about plucking gray hairs, don't you?" A smirk pulled at John's lips.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What, John?"

The smirk turned into a wide grin as John walked away. "Pull out one and ten more grow in its place!"


	11. Prepared

**Day Eleven: The word is 'prepared.'**

The air was stale and a thin layer of dust coated the furniture. Watery light filtered through unwashed windows and half-drawn drapes. Books were stacked precariously, experiments lay unfinished, and papers were scattered on every surface.

Two tea mugs balanced on the end table and their armchairs were angled toward the telly. It was as if no one had ever left. A moment frozen in time, untouched by life on the outside.

John stood unmoving in the doorway, the deafening silence filling his ears. Nothing could have prepared him for the emptiness of 221B Baker Street. It was a shell of the life it once held. Even more anguishing was the void inside of _John_.

The flat held evidence of Sherlock _everywhere_. The spicy cinnamon smell with a slight chemical edge, the chaos existent in every corner, the mountains of case work; it all screamed Sherlock, yet the man himself wasn't there—never would be again—and that startling realization ripped at John.

He shuffled into the center of the room and ghosted a hand over Sherlock's armchair, eyes closed. Memories flashed at him; the cases, the jokes, the smile Sherlock reserved only for John. Grief welled up inside of him and he let out a weary sigh.

No, nothing could have prepared him for this.


	12. Knowledge

**Day Twelve: The word is 'knowledge.'**

A figure lay prone on the smooth leather sofa. Long, lean lines, pale expanses of skin, a halo of unruly curls, and dark lashes concealing unearthly silvery blue eyes; he made a stunning picture, almost eerie in its stillness. The only reassurance was the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Occasionally, he would raise his arms and slide them through the air, rearranging words and images only visible to him.

Sherlock strolled through the dim, maze-like halls of his Mind Palace. There was room after room of meticulously placed information, ruthlessly organized to be accessed within a moment's notice. Each room was different to suit his needs.

He had a sprawling lab to accommodate his extensive scientific knowledge and a miniscule closet for his information on planets. Sherlock could flit around quickly and find what he needed with no trouble.

Often, he would visit his Palace to weed out any useless material; it took up an unnecessary amount of space.

Today was not one of those times. Today, Sherlock strolled with purpose. He ascended a long staircase and came to a battered black door with '221B' in gold in the center. This was where Sherlock stored his knowledge about John. He'd once only occupied a small section of Sherlock's Mind Palace but had quickly outgrown it. John now took up the entirety of their flat on Baker Street.

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to delete anything about John. John was an unending source of interest. One moment, Sherlock thought he'd have him pegged and the next, John would do something wholly unexpected. He was never dull. Nothing about John was useless.

The smell of tea, warm vanilla, and gunpowder wafted through the flat. Sherlock always associated it with John; homey, warm, and safe with an surprising trace of fortitude.

Sherlock wandered around his Mind Palace 221B, quietly examining what he'd gathered on Dr. John Hamish Watson.

In the upstairs bedroom were the very first deductions Sherlock had made about him, laying next to the unused cane in the wardrobe.

The nightstand next to the bed held John's gun and Sherlock's memories of all the times John had saved his life.

The kitchen was home to the consciousness that John required meals more frequently than Sherlock, a fact that Sherlock still forgot on occasion. Somewhere along the way, Sherlock had learned John's tea preferences and those were concealed high in the cupboards behind the biscuits.

On the mantle near the skull rested Sherlock's favorite part of John: his smiles. The small, petite one he gave to strangers; his 'I'm only smiling so I don't throttle you' one that was really more of a grimace,; his wide, genuine grin that was rarely seen, the one that left a fluttering sensation low in Sherlock's belly.

The flat was endlessly _John_. Sherlock calculated that it would only be four months and a handful of weeks before John outgrew 221B as well and Sherlock would be forced to expand.

John was everywhere but most important was the small dusty wooden box in the center of the sitting room. It lay on the end table, locked tight.

The box held Sherlock's emotions, safely hidden from the world. He'd long since learned that emotions were tedious but, like his knowledge of John, Sherlock could never bring himself to delete them.

Instead, he kept them locked away, rusty with disuse.

Sherlock wiped away the dust and held it carefully in his hands. Since John had limped into his life, the box had grown in size. It had lost some of its dullness and now glowed with newfound luster. The lock itself was smaller, less restricted. Sherlock placed it back on the table and swallowed over the lump in his throat.

John was slowly chipping away at Sherlock's defenses and Sherlock wasn't sure that _that_ fact didn't scare the hell out of him.


	13. Denial

**Day Thirteen: The word is 'denial.'**

Manic pacing, pupils blown wide, pink coloring high cheekbones, hair in wild disarray; the signs were recognizable immediately.

"Desperation doesn't suit you, brother," Mycroft strolled around the dim, sparsely furnished room, swinging his ever-present umbrella.

"Piss off!" Sherlock snarled. He threw himself into a ragged armchair and slouched low, tapping his fingers in a restless tempo. The room was beginning to feel claustrophobic and he vibrated with nervous, unspent energy.

"Look at yourself, Sherlock—"

"I'm _fine_!"

"—addicted to something so mundane, so common. One would think you were above such activities."

"I'm hardly an addict, Mycroft," his words were tense.

Mycroft gave him a knowing look. "But you and I bother know you are well on your way. The increased frequency of your use is evidence enough," he released a weary sigh. "You can't continue destroying yourself."

Sherlock scoffed. "The boredom would kill me sooner."

"Let's not test that theory, hmm?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You're behaving like a child. Or worse. Please, do explain how you intend to support this habit? I'm certainly not providing you with income if you insist on continuing on this path," Mycroft paused ad watched Sherlock, gauging his reaction. "And your little hobby, playing detective? That doesn't ring in money. Nor would it matter once the drugs deteriorate your senses."

Sherlock smirked. "My senses are perfect," his eyes flickered quickly over Mycroft. "You're dieting again and astonishingly, you've succeeding in losing, judging by the loose fit of your trousers and jacket. I'm shocked, Mycroft. You're usually much more diligent about going to the tailor. I wouldn't bother though. You've biscuit crumbs on your tie, so you'll surely fit your suit again soon. You smell of women's perfume, your assistant's undoubtedly—what is her name this week?—so I suspect you've just come from a little rendezvous. An affair with your assistant—how pedestrian, Mycroft. Those are new lines on your forehead—something is worrying you. Not enough lives to interfere with lately?" Sherlock took a breath and smiled smugly. "My senses are _fine_."

Mycroft leveled a stare at Sherlock. "Your deductions don't impress or surprise me, Sherlock. You've never made your brilliance a secret," he frowned. "What surprises me is you lack of thought and apparent willingness to lose the ability to deduce effectively. Put that mind to _use_. If you continue this way, your senses _will_ weaken and where will you be then? Think about it."

Sherlock glared stonily.

"Reconsider your actions, Sherlock," Mycroft turned to leave. "Clean up your act or I'll be forced to take matters into my own hands."

**A/N: I'm in a bit of a writing slump. I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter but I need to move on to other prompts. Nothing is quite inspiring me at the moment, so I apologize for any delays that may come from this slump...**


	14. Wind

**A/N: Okay okay so I've definitely been slacking on posting these. I'm a bit caught up in organizing things for my upcoming move and the Johnlock gift exchange/challenge. I'll work on more this weekend :3**

**Day Fourteen: The word is 'wind.'**

John trudged—no, _splashed_ would be far more accurate—up the pavement, a few buildings from 221B, and cursed as he sunk ankle-deep into an icy puddle. London was at the mercy of a nonstop downpour and the torrential deluge had begun moments after he'd left the surgery, without an umbrella. _Naturally_.

John turned up his collar against the vicious wind at his back and lengthened his strides, head ducked to obtain a bit of protection from the elements. A shiver ran through him as rainwater slid down his neck and left a chilly trail under his jumper. If there were ever a moment for a sleek black car to whisk him away to a mysterious warehouse, this would be it. At least he'd get a ride home out of it. _Bloody Mycroft._

Pushing through the crowds rushing home out of the rain, John made it to the flat within five minutes. As he shrugged out of his dripping jacket and shook the water from his eyes, John cocked his head at the whirring noise floating down the stairs.

He sighed and braced himself for whatever absurdities Sherlock had concocted today. The scene waiting for him at the top of the steps only lent more confusion.

The sitting room windows were thrown wide open, exposing the room to gusts of wind and pouring rain. Several floor fans were scattered about, running full power, and case documents fluttered through the air. Everything within reach of the open windows was quickly becoming drenched.

"Wha—Sherlock!" John shouted over the racket. "What the _hell_—" He broke off.

Sherlock flew past him with an armful of papers and flung them on any available surface.

John could only stare.

Sherlock looked every bit a deranged scientist. His dark curls seemed to have expanded and stuck out every which way, and his goggles—Well. They magnified his eyes, bug-like in their appearance. He was flapping his arms about in a way that gave him the look of a rather over-sized bird.

John was torn between laughing manically and walking away, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. Instead, he looked at Sherlock questioningly.

Sherlock smirked, the left side of his lips quirking up endearingly. "It's an experiment, John!"


	15. Order

**Day Fifteen: The word is 'order.'**

"_That's an order, Corporal!"_

Sherlock shifted on the sofa and closed his eyes, unable to get comfortable. He forced his thoughts elsewhere, but every few minutes, the image of John in strict military posture, face composed and voice commanding would invade his senses. In control, rigidly poised, confident; that was where John was clearly at home. Sherlock wanted to experience that control firsthand. He wanted John in his military uniform, shagging him senseless; ordering him to strip; taking charge.

Sherlock groaned in frustration and berated himself. Stupid. Idiot. _You have more control than this. Don't think about it!_

Sherlock cursed John. John and his own bloody body for betraying him.

The moment John pulled rank at Baskerville was playing continually in his mind, offering no relief to his suddenly _very_ interested libido.

Sherlock was strongly considering taking matters into his own hands and having a wank right in the sitting room when heavy footsteps approached, accompanied by a soft metallic clinking.

He opened his eyes to glare at the offending noise and was unsurprised to find John leaning over him. Sherlock's gaze widened when he saw the identity tags circling John's neck.

Sherlock scowled at the desire that shot through him. "_What_ are you doing?"

"Oh now, don't play stupid," John smirked. "I saw the look you gave me at Baskerville and you've been watching me closely since. You _liked_ when I pulled rank and judging by your expression, you _love_ my tags. Wonder what you'll do when you see me in uniform."

Sherlock swallowed and met John's heated gaze. "What are you going to do about it?"

John pulled Sherlock up and led him to the bedroom. "Why don't I show you, solider?"


	16. Thanks

**Day Sixteen: The word is 'thanks.'**

"I'm headed to the pub tonight," John's statement was met with silence. He nudged Sherlock, who was sprawled on the sofa, head resting in John's lap. "Did you hear me?"

Sherlock hummed. "Of course. You gave no indication that you required a response." He fiddled with his mobile, undoubtedly awaiting word on a new case.

John rolled his eyes. "It's typically considered good form to let someone know you've heard them when they speak to you."

"Dull."

"No, _polite_."

The beginnings of a smirk pulled at Sherlock's lips. He didn't reply but shifted comfortably and tugged John's hand to his head. John chuckled and carded his fingers through the dark locks. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled. He reminded John of a rather large, smug cat.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" John said fondly.

Sherlock made a noise of agreement.

"Anyhow, I thought I'd meet Mike for a pint. Want to come along?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Mmm, right. Never mind."

Sherlock peeked up at John with a mischievous spark. "Besides, I have no intention of allowing you to leave this spot. You'll have to cancel."

"Not happening. I do have friends outside of my life with you, you know. And in any case, I want to properly thank Mike."

"For what?" Sherlock arched a brow.

John lightly tugged a curl. "Like you don't know."

"Enlighten me."

"Don't be an idiot. You and I both know why. He introduced us, you prat. And for that, I owe him a lot." John's bemused look turned warm. He ran a gentle hand down Sherlock's arm and intertwined their fingers.

"I know," Sherlock smiled. "I just wanted to hear you say it."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say that sounded almost sentimental," John's tone was teasing.

"Nonsense."

"Hmm good. Didn't want to think I was making you soft," John squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Don't be preposterous!" Sherlock was indignant but John could hear the humor in his exclamation. The idea of Sherlock becoming a "sentimental fool," as he called it, was laughable. John knew this was a rare moment of affection and took advantage of it.

"It _would_ be preposterous. Mike will think I'm mad for thanking him," He leaned close and gave Sherlock a soft kiss. "But I wouldn't have you any other way."


	17. Look

**Day Seventeen: The word is 'look.'**

John woke gradually. Heat surrounded him and he burrowed deeper beneath his blanket. He floated peacefully between sleep and lucidity, drifting mindlessly. It was a pleasant recourse from the frantic pace he kept up chasing after Sherlock.

Slowly, lazily, the foggy veil of slumber lifted and John became aware of a soft, probing touch on his shoulder. He jolted awake, soldier instincts kicking in, and blinked blearily into the predawn light filtering through the curtains. John squinted and found wide, pale eyes staring at him owlishly.

"Sher—What the _hell_?"

Sherlock shifted, perched on the left edge of the mattress. "Hello, John."

"Hello?" John peered at his alarm clock. "It's five in the morning! _What_ are you doing?"

"I want to examine your scar."

John pushed himself up, leaning against the headboard, and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawning widely. "Seriously?" John tamped down his incredulity. Living with him for this long, John should be accustomed to Sherlock's eccentricities. "You could have asked. But instead, you choose to poke at me while I'm _sleeping_, right after we've finished a case. Sherlock," he sighed, resigned.

"Based on information I've gathered, most people wouldn't be receptive to the idea," Sherlock was defensive.

"I'm not most people," John muttered. "I put up with _you_. Explain please."

"Research."

"On what? Scars? Most effective ways to drive your flat mate insane?" John looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"You," Sherlock moved closer and watched John carefully. The underlying uncertainty in Sherlock's eyes belied his usually confident front.

Warmth curled through John and his heart beat just a little faster. Something in Sherlock's voice suggested that this was more than curiosity. John cocked his head and met Sherlock's unwavering gaze. "Okay," he nodded. He leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp, illuminating them both in a golden glow.

Sherlock gave John a look of appraisal; his willingness had undoubtedly come as a surprise. John smiled a bit. "I'm not ashamed of my scar. Most of the people who see it ignore it. Think I'm embarrassed," he shrugged. "It's not pretty but it's part of me."

John scooted to the center of the bed, freeing a space for Sherlock, and leaned forward to give him a better view of his bare shoulder.

Moving gracefully, Sherlock seated himself closer to John, the mattress sinking with his weight. He ducked his head to scrutinize the lightly tanned skin surrounding raised scar tissue on John's back. John could feel Sherlock's warm breath puff against his neck, slow and steady. He resisted the urge to shiver and relaxed his shoulders.

Long, elegant fingers delicately traced the puckered scar. The smooth, slightly knotted mark was pale pink and held the sheen of repaired skin. Sherlock ghosted his fingers over the curve of John's shoulder and shifted his attention to the healed wound on John's chest. It webbed out from the center, creating a small starburst.

"You were shot from behind. Not quite clean through but fairly close. Enough to come out the other side. Damaged muscle, nicked the subclavian artery. Exit wound on your chest," Sherlock's words were rapid but soft. He glanced up for unnecessary affirmation.

John was startled by the intensity of Sherlock's look, heavy with indeterminate emotion. He could only nod.

"You were extremely lucky. A wound like that and you could have easily bled out and died…" A thumb stroked mindlessly over John's skin. "I'm very pleased you didn't."

John held his breath, sensing Sherlock had more to say.

"I'm glad you were shot. Not glad that it caused you pain, of course!" he added hurriedly when John's eyes widened. "If you hadn't been shot, you wouldn't have been invalided home. And we would not have been introduced. You are…entirely invaluable to me, John." Sherlock's fingers tensed on John's shoulder and his eyes darted away for a moment before once again meeting John's.

John was struck by the uncharacteristic vulnerability Sherlock displayed and smiled softly. He reached down hesitantly and gripped Sherlock's hand, hanging onto it like a lifeline. "I care about you too, Sherlock," his eyes crinkled at the corners as his smile widened. "I wouldn't have it any other way, even if you are a madman."

Sherlock smirked and chuckled lowly, giving John's hand a squeeze. "You _like_ it. I keep you on your toes and we both know you crave the danger." John nodded in agreement.

"Thank you—" Sherlock was suddenly solemn as he gestured to John's shoulder. "—for this. For allowing me to look. It was…quite informative."

John shook his head, amused, and pulled Sherlock next to him. They sat side by side, pressed together. "Of course." John really shouldn't have been surprised by how well they fit. "But Sherlock…"

Sherlock hummed contentedly in response, eyes drifting closed.

"Next time, just ask."

**A/N: Sorry about the delay. The Johnlock challenge has been taking up my time. Oh and the little fact that I'm moving to England on Monday (WHAT?!) :)**


	18. Summer

**Day Eighteen: The word is 'summer.'**

"Never again."

"But—"

"No."

"If you had just _listened_ to me—"

"Shut up, John."

Sherlock lay sprawled face down on their bed with his head resting on crossed arms, a scowl on his reddened face. His normally pale skin was a vivid red, shiny with aloe. John gently rubbed more lotion across Sherlock's shoulders and stifled a laugh.

"With your fair skin, it can't honestly come as a surprise that this happened," he felt Sherlock tense and shiver at his cool touch. "_Especially_ since you refused to wear sunscreen. Idiot," he added fondly.

"Useless," Sherlock scoffed. "I've never had need for it before."

"Turn over," John wiped his hands free of lotion and smiled ruefully at Sherlock. "Maybe next time you'll listen, hmm? You'll be fine in a few days."

Sherlock, now reclining against the headboard, glared at John. John, who was pleasantly tanned. John, who hadn't gotten burned a bit on the short vacation Mycroft had forced on them.

Sherlock loathed summer.


End file.
